Breathless
by Nanaki Lioness
Summary: [Character death warning] Mycroft has never been very good with words, but that doesn't mean he wants to lose the right to them.


Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters based around the world of Sherlock Holmes. That honour belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, and the version I've written for is owned by the BBC.

**Warning: character death**

_Breathless_

By Nanaki Lioness

Mycroft ignores all the symptoms when they begin. He's too busy and too important to worry about simple things like illness, so he just takes vitamins and says nothing. When the cough comes and does not go, he says nothing. When he loses weight, he says nothing.

Sherlock says nothing too, even though he notices, until the day Mycroft visits and coughs harshly enough that Sherlock finally gives him a glass of water and an imperceptible glance of concern.

"You should get that looked at," he says quietly.

"Nonsense," Mycroft responds immediately with a wave of his hand. "It's just a cough."

Both of them notice the blood on his fingers, and neither of them mention it.

.

The next time is two months later. Mycroft turns up unannounced, as he often does, and seats himself in John's chair opposite Sherlock with a wracked sigh. Sherlock sits and observes him, fingers steepled below his chin.

"The cough is becoming a nuisance," Mycroft says informatively. "I will be having a scan to-"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. Sherlock watches as Mycroft struggles to regain his breath, and thinks he doesn't need John's training as a doctor to see that something is hugely amiss.

.

John Watson sees it, too. During one of Mycroft's visits he watches worriedly, glancing at Sherlock as Mycroft coughs and coughs and _coughs_. Sherlock catches his eye, and turns away. None of them know what to say.

.

It's another month before Mycroft meets Sherlock outside of Bart's hospital, in the pouring rain. Sherlock thinks it's apt, and doesn't steal his brother's umbrella as he has done in the past.

"Lung cancer," Mycroft tells him, but it's mostly a formality at that point. They both knew it already. He has a scan in his hands of his lungs, which he passes to Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't take it, frowning and shaking his head.

"I believe you," he says, though they know believing and accepting are two different things.

.

John catches Sherlock outside their flat later that evening, a cigarette in his hand and his cheeks stained with tears. He puts the shopping bags in his hands down and snatches the offending smoke, glaring at Sherlock as he stamps it out angrily on the ground.

"Your brother has lung cancer, and you're smoking?" He berates sharply, before he realises from the look on Sherlock's face that he's preaching to the choir.

"Yes, John," Sherlock replies, his voice strained and he lights another cigarette. "I am."

John doesn't have to ask why. Sherlock's ways of de-stressing aren't going to change overnight, only now he has to contend with soul crushing guilt for this one. No wonder Sherlock's tears renew every time he inhales.

.

Mycroft refuses to go into hospital, even though he clearly needs it. He refuses treatment, aside from a single blood transfusion John talks him into. He stays working right until he is so fatigued he can't move from the bed, and even then he instructs people via his phone. Sherlock doesn't visit often, but that suits Mycroft just fine- he can't stand seeing his brother so sad, anyway.

John visits, though. He talks and keeps Mycroft updated about cases and his blog and Sherlock, and Mycroft doesn't have the energy to do much other than listen. He enjoys it, he thinks. He doesn't have much else to do now, except await death.

.

Sherlock knows, presumably through John, when Mycroft worsens. He shows up in the evening and takes a seat in the chair next to Mycroft's bed, and simply waits. Mycroft cannot speak now without coughing so hard he can't breathe, so he doesn't ask what he is waiting for. They both know. The first couple of times it happens, Sherlock stays until he begins to regain strength before vanishing back to Baker Street without a word. The third time is different, and Sherlock knows it the moment Mycroft speaks.

"Surely you are bored, brother mine," he says, his voice quieter than the wind and harsher than gravel. "Waiting for me to die."

They both know that he's speaking because he knows he is losing the battle. He doesn't have to preserve his energy to fight, because death is approaching. You can't take your breath with you into death, so Mycroft intends to use it.

"I imagined I would be assassinated," he admits.

"Please don't talk," Sherlock implores him, his voice steady but his eyes full of heartbreak.

"Call John Watson," Mycroft tells him instead.

"I can call your doctor instead, if you need."

"Not for me," Mycroft tells him with a soft smile. "For you."

He closes his eyes to fatigue, dozing into a fretful sleep. When he awakens, he finds John occupying the chair and Sherlock is sitting on the edge of his bed. Mycroft hasn't lost the ability to scowl so he does, making his displeasure known. Sherlock shakes his head slowly, and says nothing. They've been good at saying nothing, Mycroft thinks, but that's because the eyes say everything. The looks they share say a thousand words and more.

.

The days are becoming hazy and Mycroft has to fight to even stay awake, let alone anything else. He realises Sherlock has stayed, and he realises that he is dying. He has no breath left to protest, so instead he sleeps. He sleeps and sleeps, while Sherlock watches and waits. John checks Mycroft's pulse occasionally, and says nothing to Sherlock when he no longer feels one. He doesn't need to, because Sherlock knows. He's gasping for breath, much like Mycroft used to do, and he's visibly shaking. John's never seen him that way and it frightens him, calling for Mycroft's doctor while keeping a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

When the doctor arrives, John takes it as his cue to herd Sherlock from the room. Sherlock goes without resistance, allowing himself to be bundled into a taxi and escorted home. Once they arrive he vanishes into his bedroom and stays there, leaving John to linger outside the doorway unsure of what to do. Sherlock knows he's there, of course, and tells him to piss off. John obeys, because there is little else he can do.

.

The funeral is a sad affair, as funerals often are. Half the British government have turned out for it, which is no surprise. Sherlock calls the service dull and tedious, and practically sulks his way through it. John isn't sure if it's an act of self-preservation, or if Sherlock has convinced himself that he doesn't care.

When it's just them left at the freshly filled grave, Sherlock kneels down and sets on one hand on the soil covering his brother's sleek, inky coloured coffin.

"How is England going to function without you?" He asks, though his tone says it isn't England he cares about.

"We'll manage," John says in a miserable attempt at humour. Sherlock doesn't laugh, but John doesn't really expect him to. Instead he cries, and the sound breaks John Watson's heart.

.

_Author's Notes: I haven't written in forever and I spotted this prompt and decided I had to tackle it. Nothing like a dabble in a completely different fandom to spark the creative part of my brain alive!_

_Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed._


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